


The Weather Outside Is Frightful

by renquise



Series: Life is pretty mundane, even for elite mercenary teams. [4]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-19
Updated: 2010-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-14 09:41:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renquise/pseuds/renquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The RED base gets transferred to Viaduct.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weather Outside Is Frightful

They always seem to be transferred to another base at the most inconvenient of times. Medic thinks that someone in the administration must have it out for him on some deeply personal level, because, really, Viaduct in the middle of January? Preposterous.

“Ya know, couldn’t they send us to Hawaii or somethin’ in the winter? I’m sure BLU must be up to somethin’ inside one of them volcanoes,” Engineer says, stamping his feet and tucking his hands under his arms. His voice is slightly muffled by the countless scarves wrapped around his neck, his goggles peeking out above red and white stripes and burgundy polka dots. He’d also acquired an absolutely ridiculous hardhat liner, which looked uncannily like a small woodland animal had sprouted from his hardhat to consume his head.

Handing Engineer another pair of mittens, Sniper was also looking chilled, but terribly smug. “An’ you said that knitting was useless. Ha!”

“Mon ami, it was quite useless when you were producing miles of scarves in the middle of the desert,” Spy says, pulling up the collar on his trenchcoat. “Now, it’s marginally less useless, but that is still an utterly heinous shade of red.”

“Quit whinin’, you big girl, the color’s fine. ‘S like a cherry-red, see?”

“I was not aware that cherries came in that particular shade of neon.”

“Hey, it’s good wool,” Sniper says, “Look, just take the scarf before I throttle you with it.”

“Spy, I will more than gladly use that scarf if you ain’t gonna use it, so you’d best take it,” Engineer says, looking ever more disgruntled.

Spy hunches his shoulders around his ears, but takes the scarf. “Well, if only to stop you from smothering yourself, Engineer.” He settles it gingerly around his neck, as if the (admittedly quite loud) color could bleed into his tasteful suit. “Happy, now?”

At least most of them are properly bundled up. Unlike Scout, who seems to be trying to do his utmost to induce hypothermia by prancing about in little more than a long-sleeved shirt, and Demoman, who is still nursing his bottle of alcohol despite Medic’s clear warnings about vasoconstriction and hypothermia, which Demoman had waved off with a comment about Saint Bernards. Soldier had clapped Demoman on the back and congratulated him for not letting the cold shrink his balls back inside his body like some goddamned eunuch.

Medic sighs and cinches his sensible coat more closely around himself. Why he puts up with his colleagues is sometimes beyond him.

“Doctor! Why so grumpy?” Heavy trundles up to him, obviously relishing the cold.

“Ah, Heavy. I am merely dreading the oncoming rush of stupidity-induced frostbite and various other cold-related ailments that I will have to deal with. The weather itself is very acceptable,” he clarifies. “Now, if _certain_ people would dress themselves in a fashion that corresponds to the sub-zero temperatures, I would be perfectly content.”

Heavy shrugs, looking up at the low, grey sky. “Is not so cold. Will make Scout grow hair on chest.”

“Yes, yes, but in the meantime, I’ll be the one to put up with the excruciating whining. Scout, if you do not put a coat on, I will amputate your gangrenous, frostbitten legs without anaesthetic,” he calls out.

Scout freezes still for a second, before pretending that he hadn’t heard and continuing to attempt to shove snow down Pyro’s suit, with little success.

Medic sighs. Well, he’d learn soon enough. Preferably before said frostbite set in, although it had been a long time since he’d gotten the chance to observe its effects first-hand.

 

The snow starts in the afternoon, light flakes settling onto Medic’s gloves as he flips the switch for an uber. Soon enough, Sniper is grumbling about not being able to get a clear shot through the waves of snow, and Engineer has enlisted Pyro’s help in trying to keep drifts of snow from piling up around his sentry.

“Geez, hardhat, is that an electric blanket on your sentry? Why doncha just stick a pair of mittens on it, too?” Scout says, warming his hands on it after running back—well, wading back—from the control point.

“She won’t start if she isn’t warmed up properly,” Engineer says, frowning at the slow chugging sound of his dispenser. “She weren’t made for these doggone temperatures.”

As the fighting slowly grinds to a halt, they can barely hear the Announcer’s voice saying that due to uncooperative weather conditions and their apparent lack of ability to cope with even the slightest flurries, the fighting would be suspended; the wind snatches away the consonants, leaving the shrill vowels to tumble through the gusts.

Medic is more than glad to step inside, brushing a coat of snow off his uniform from Soldier’s unexpected rocketjump. Through his fogged glasses, he can make out the rest of the team straggling in, stamping snow off their boots and peeling off damp mittens, looking thoroughly wet and miserable. Heavy shakes his ushanka off, and brushes a thick layer of snow off Sniper’s hat when he comes in, his movements stiff. Medic wouldn’t call himself a sentimental man by any means, but it is strange to have the locker room empty of any celebratory boasting or promises of revenge, the room silent except for the sloughing of wet coats and the occasional shout to shut the goddamn door.

 

The storm rages on through the evening, whipping snow against the windows and whistling through the cracks in the planks.

Sniper looks out the window, hands stilling on his disassembled rifle. “Hey, where’s Truckie? Haven’t seen him for awhile.”

As if on cue, Engineer walks in with his mouth set, a smudge of grease across his forehead. “So, the gosh-darned furnace is on the fritz. God almighty, who decided to put a base in the middle of a frozen wasteland.”

Demoman throws his hands up. “Well, isn’t that just dandy.”

Medic sets his book aside. “Frozen wasteland” may be a bit of an exaggeration, but he can’t say he’s feeling particularly charitable towards this base. “We’ll have to wait until the morning to do anything about it, I believe. Until then, it’ll be best to conserve what warmth we have.”

“I’d have to say that it would be best for all of us to sleep in this room—it’s got a wood stove, at least,” Engineer suggests morosely.

Scout snorts. “Okay, you guys can have your girly sleepover and paint each others’ nails and braid your hair and shit. I’m gonna go sleep in my bed.”

As expected, a minute or so later, Scout barges back in, saying, “Okay, fuck that, it’s cold as balls out there. I call sleeping beside Pyro, he’s like a freakin’ oversized hot water bottle.” He glares at all of them, presumably daring them to make a comment about his sexuality. “’Cause I’m not gay for Pyro or anything. He’s just hot, okay? Okay.” Spy snickers. “[i]Warm[/i]. Not hot. Warm. Shut the fuck up, Spy, you’re just jealous because Sniper is too bony to cuddle.”

Pyro shrugs good-naturedly, sitting down on the pile of blankets. Scout stares at him, obviously wondering if he’s going to shuck off his suit or not. Pyro removes his gas canister and his belt, and after a moment, his boots, revealing polka-dotted stockings, and then thumps back onto the blankets with a sigh.

Scout stares at the socks for a moment.

Pyro wiggles his toes.

Sniper calls out, “Aw, mate, glad you like them! Are they warm?”

Pyro gives him a thumbs-up and a cheerful mumble.

Scout scowls at Sniper. “Hey! Man, why didn’t I get any freakin’ socks? Geez, you expect me to run my feet off and then get no thanks for it?”

Sniper duly ignores him. Pyro looks at Scout and tugs off his pair of socks—revealing a pair of RED-bomb-patterned socks—and holds them out to Scout. Scout looks torn between disgust and morbid curiosity. “…What the fuck, how many layers of socks do you have on?”

Pyro looks contemplative, ticking off a few fingers, and then shrugging. He pulls off another few pairs (one with meticulous sticky-bomb patterns, another plain red, one with a pattern that looked vaguely like skulls wearing blue balaclavas), as if to demonstrate. Medic entertains a brief moment of curiosity as to whether there was anything under all the layers, and if so, whether it was carbon-based.

“Well, I’m glad someone is using them,” Sniper mutters.

(Scout does eventually put the socks on, saying, “Okay, fine, fine, your socks are almost as nice as my ma’s. Almost.”)

It’s a bit of a challenge to get everyone settled, especially since every one of them seems to sleep with a knife, a pistol, or grenades under their pillow. (“’S like one of them massaging pillows, see,” Demoman explains when Spy asks him how that could possibly be comfortable.) Medic finds himself sandwiched between Heavy and Demoman, vainly attempting to carve out some sort of personal space.

Somehow, there’s a strange comfort in the small sounds of those around him settling—sighs, groans, and the rustling of blankets, gradually fading out into silence, but for the whistling of the wind.

“Man, this is kind of like that time back home when we had a power outage, ‘n we had to sleep in the same room with candles on and I had to share a sleeping bag with Mike and he kicked me all night so I shoved him over and then he punched me in the arm but he elbowed Randy when he did that so Randy steamrolled over us in his sleeping bag and then Ma told us to be quiet and sleep and we did ‘cuz she looks kinda scary when she’s just woken up and she doesn’t have her makeup on—“

“If little man is not quiet, I will steamroll over everyone,” Heavy says matter-of-factly.

Medic falls asleep surprisingly easily, given the snoring and the thorough lack of space. Sleeping on the floor is going to wreak havoc on his back, he knows. But it’s adequately warm.

 

The next morning, they wake to a pristine, unbroken expanse of white, the rooftops heaped with snow. There’s a sense of sterile purity that Medic could almost call beautiful. He finds himself loath to break the unmarked surface with his boot, the snow settling beneath his sole with a squeak. Even Engineer is remarkably less testy, his dispenser starting up with its usual hum thanks to the engine block heater suggested by Soldier.

It’s even more satisfying to see the expanse of white decorated by a graceful spray of blood from an arm with a blue mitten arcing through the air, followed by Soldier’s shout and Heavy’s deep laugh echoing over the field.

Medic takes a deep breath, feeling the cold air burn down his throat and into his lungs. Everything is at once muffled and crisp, the noise of battle rounded at its edges, red and blue clear-cut against the bright snow, the stark blue sky soaring above them and outlining the mountaintops.

He can’t even muster up the bile to snap at Scout and Pyro when they start rolling up snow under the guise of making a decoy. He even contributes a matching pair of blue-mittened arms to the project.


End file.
